Plots and oneshots
by cloud9stories
Summary: Either oneshots or plot bunnies, we'll see!
1. Breaking Out

**The ministry still denies the return of Lord Voldemort, and Ginny has been sent to Azkaban along with Sirius, who shielded her when the Aurors accused her ( years too late to be useful) to have unleashed a basilisk in Hogwarts. This is the story of their break out.**

* * *

The sky was stormy, the heavy clouds hid lightning that suddenly discharged into the sea below, with booming thunders covering even the sound of the crashing waves. The wind was so strong that one couldn't tell the rain from the saltwater if not for the taste it left on the tongue.

All the water suspended in the air helped to freeze to the bone the wizard, along with the harsh and unmistakable presence of the dementors, that circled the prison of Azkaban.

The wizard stood alone on a rock buffeted by unrelenting waves. He was almost two meters tall, with broad shoulders. His figure was hugged by a long, black trenchcoat opened on the front, revealing a scaled armour of deep green, with light blue runes slowly sliding over it, like shadows on the wall. The man donned a simple white mask that covered his whole face, with a red band running horizontally over his eyes. The mask' orbits shone of the same light blue of the runes running over his armor, like eldritch fires. Around his neck, a Buddhist beaded necklace, with each of the beads encased in a net string.

Each of his fingers but the thumbs had a different ring. The wizard rose his hands in front of himself, smiling wistfully and muttered under his breath:

"On his right hand proudly shone,

Iron, and Stone,

Wood and Bone.

Another four stood on the left hand.

One of blood in a flowing band,

One was air all whisper-thin,

A ring of sand held death within.

Like an ember shone the one of flame,

And the last one space could tame."

He moved his left hand forward, with a grabbing motion. And where his hand should have closed on nothing but air and rain, he wrapped his fingers around the shaft of a spear that appeared out of nowhere. The wooden shaft was made of three different materials: whistlethorn, fir and ironwood. It was two meters and ten centimetres long, with a spiky stone bottom, it's entirety was covered in runes so entwined that couldn't be distinguished from random scratches. The top of the spear was made of a very deadly frail-looking crystal shaped like a straight twenty centimetres long blade. At the base of the blade, a little red stone pulsed steadily, like a beating heart.

He wasn't nervous, after all, he was sure that everything went well.

The wizard handled the weapon carefully, looking for imperfections in its design. Finding none, he opened his hands, but instead of falling the spear disappeared once again in thin air. The wizard rolled his shoulders, bracing himself for the effort he was about to sustain. He crouched, and jumped forward, slashing down with both of his arms.

Only that his arms were now powerful wings, and instead of the previous trenchcoat there was a coat of brown and white-coloured plumage. His head was no longer hidden by a mask but had a grey-blue, raptor beak and a crest of light brown feathers that looked almost like a mane. The steely pointed boots morphed into strong talons with dangerous claws.

This Philippine eagle had a wingspan of 230 centimetres, and it weighed around 6kg.

The powerful bird soared the sky, battling air currents and wind alike, ignoring the battering rain and the aggressive cold.

Fifteen minutes later, give or take, the eagle landed on the top of Azkaban, becoming the mysterious wizard once more.

He didn't waste a single second and slammed the bottom of the spear on the roof of the prison. The sone floor crumbled in a fifty centimetres radius around the bottom of the spear.

The masked wizard jumped in, and the spear crystal blade started to shine of faint white light. The dementors that were patrolling the corridors steered clear of him, but were fast to follow, since every cell that he surpassed became suddenly accessible, the bars that kept the dark creatures from reaching the prisoners. He went along the corridors skipping while humming a haunting tune.

Soon he reached one of the two prisoners he was looking for, he entered it quickly leaving the spear on the edge of the cell, to protect them both from the dementors.

Before the witch was able to even recognize the presence of an intruder, he forced her weak body to drink a dose of Draught of Living Death. When she stilled, the wizard picked a few hairs from her unmoving form, and let them fall into another vial. The poly juice potion inside quickly became of a raspberry red. Satisfied, the wizard pocketed the vial, before opening a bag lined with undetectable expansion charms on the side of the unconscious witch. He gently lowered Ginevra Weasley inside before closing the bag and putting it away into a hidden pocket beneath the enchanted hide armour.

He grabbed his spear on his way out and descended deeper into the prison, opening every cell in which he recognized a death eater. Finally seeing Sirius Black he repeated the same process, placing him safely into his expanded bag (he had prepared it filling it with pillows), but only after having prepared another vial of poly juice with a few strands of his hair. He had to be a tiny bit forceful, but Sirius Black knew how to resist dementors better than anyone, so it hadn't been a surprise.

That silly dog managed to let himself be captured again, and while shielding Ginevra from the Aurors. It hardly mattered that the evidence that led to the youngest Weasley investigation was circumstantial. Let yourself be seen with an escaped convict and proof of your misdeeds is really no longer needed. And they dared fault the youngest Weasley for unleashing a basilisk, stuff that happened years before, in the meantime denying the return of Lord Voldemort. The wizard frowned under the mask, he had never liked the ministry that much.

When the masked wizard finished counting a good number of death eaters he made his way back to the top. He forced a couple of soul-less wizards to drink the two vials of polyjuice he had prepared. Once they had finished morphing, the masked wizard brought them respectively in Sirius and Ginevra' cells, where he killed them slowly, nailing them on his spear multiple times.

He repaired the hole in the roof through which he came in, before skipping down the prison once again. The haunting tune always present, it sounded like a macabre lullaby.

He collected all of the death eaters that he had left to the dementors before, placing them in another bag lined with expansion charms. Once the wizard reached roughly half of Azkaban's height, he noticed that the pressure exercised by the dementors on the Patronus ward kept in place by the spear dimmed. It didn't fade completely, oh no, but the wizard let out a relieved sigh nonetheless. The wizard stopped humming his tune.

He briefly touched his mask with the rings of bone and blood. His faced morphed into a pale, serpentine one, with gleaming red eyes and a lipless mouth.

The wizard masked as Lord Voldemort strode forward menacingly, assuming a new rhythm with his steps.

_Now for the hard part._ the wizard thought, disillusioning himself.

At the higher levels, there were the maximum-security cells, with an exclusively dementor based patrols. Things changed the lower one went, and it was necessary for a successful escape. The first hit wizard on guard duty was speared through the chest, and the suddenly visible spear seemed to be drinking his blood. The red stone encased at the base of the blade glowed a little more brightly, and started to give off ominous feeling.

By the time the wizard reached the first floor, another six guards had died. And finally the alarm rung.

When the wizard reached Azkaban's entrance, he was wielding a wand in each hand (taken from the corpses of the guards he had killed).

* * *

Johnson had been an auror for seven years, and he hated to admit it, but while the position as an Azkaban guard was virtually the safest job in DMLE, and well paid too, it scared him shitless.

Maybe it was the always stormy sky, or the waves that crashed against the rocky coast of the little island, or more probably the presence of dementors and desperate, miserable inmates. Somewhat always made him tense, he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So when the alarm rung he cursed himself for having accepted the job, but duty-bound, reached the others to the main entrance of the prison.

It was then that they all felt it. At first, it was a subtle difference from the usual gloomy atmosphere, that turned heavier with each passing moment, before becoming downright threatening.

When they saw the intruder, half of them was left paralyzed by fear.

"It's _him!"_

"_He's back!_"

"You Know Who!"

The other half was either uncaring for their own lives, or simply mad. They raised their wands against him: "Drop the wands and surrender yourself!" they ordered.

The Dark Lord tilted his head, studying curiously the insignificant little creatures that dared stand in his way. With a teasing smile that had no place on his inhuman face, Lord Voldemort reached for his necklace, before pulling a single string, undoing a knot.

In half a second, all 108 beads came free from the net that was keeping them in place. Every single bead grew to the dimensions of a quidditch bludger, and even worse: they started behaving like them. After a whole second, half of them became invisible, and the Dark Lord started raining curses on them.

Johnson finally rose his wand arm, choosing to attack Lord Voldemort. If he had to die, he would buy enough time for the Ministry to send reinforcements. In that moment he fekt at least three bludgers slamming into him and he was thrown out the main entrance, landing roughly on the hard ground, under the stormy sky. He tried to get up when everything went black.

When Johnson came to his senses, he saw the Dark Lord slowly walking under the stormy sky, all the guards had been tossed around like ragdolls. He tried to move, but the bludgers had done a number on him, he couldn't even twitch a finger. He could _feel_ how his bones had been pulverized all over his body. He tried to fall unconscious again, but to no avail, the throbbing, agonizing pain was keeping him wide awake. All he managed was a wheezing gasp that went unheard under the rain.

He saw You Know Who opening his hands, letting the wands he had been using fall to the ground. Suddenly he was holding a spear. He twirled it around himself, the red stone beating a furious rhythm that kept growing faster, the crystal blade of the spear shone of the purest white light. He completed his movements slamming the spear into the round blade first.

The white crystal _shattered_, while the whole spear vanished in a silvery flash that left him blind. However, he didn't need eyes to feel the wards around Azkaban unravelling. The dementors presence, always so deeply intertwined with the very idea of the prison, was mysteriously absent. He heard the blood-freezing cry of **Morsmordre**, and the telling crack of apparition, who told him that for some strange reason, he was still alive.

* * *

The masked wizard appeared with a crack over the white cliffs of Dover, near a cage covered by an oilcloth. He blanketed himself in wearing charms, before divesting himself of everything he had on him. His rings crumbled to dust, their purpose accomplished. He threw everything into the same bag that held Ginevra Weasley and Sirius Black.

Finally, he felt the effect of the poly juice fading, and when she had once again her natural, petite form, she dressed herself in clothes that she had prepared days before. She also donned the ministry badge for visitors she had obtained through the visitor access. Over it there was written: _Luna Lovegood, international portkey_.

She freed the albatross from the cage where she had put him a few hours before, and tied to his feet the two enchanted bags. "I know it's a long way to the Philippines, but I know you're very strong and resilient, so I don't have to worry. Here, this will help." And tapping gently the albatross on his head, she whispered '**Impervious**.".

The enormous bird ruffled his feathers, checking that whatever the witch had done to him wasn't harmful. He then started running clumsily along the edge of the cliff before finally taking off.

She took out the time turner she borrowed, and gave it a few turns, after that she took a deep breath to recenter herself: time was so confusing at times.

She apparated to Diagon Alley, from there she apparated in front of the visitor entrance. She entered the phone booth dialling 6442, and when the automatic voice asked who and why was visiting, she focused for a couple of seconds, trying to remember it right: "I'm Lucius Malfoy, and I'm going to help my master break into Azkaban." The metallic badge was immediately offered, and it said: _Lucius Malfoy, aiding break out_.

Luna skipped merrily through the Atrium, weaving her way through the busy crowd. For so.e reason, she was always in the blind point of everyone, and when she crossed the wand checking line no alarm sound, because she was, after all, already inside. She reached an empty elevator, and pressed the button that led the deepest underground. While she was waiting, she disillusioned her self with a single, silent tap of her willow and demiguise heartstring wand.

She exited the elevator a few seconds after the younger, less tired version of herself started walking to the circular room. Luna, with an invisible Luna for company, soon reached the circular antechamber full of doors, where she politely asked for the Time Room.

Luna and her doppelganger entered together with the chamber. The first Luna picked up a time turner, and the second one put down the one she used in its proper place, along with Lucius Malfoy's badge.

The younger Luna couldn't resist the temptation and turned back, noticing the badge and reading it. She giggled causing her older self to grin knowingly. She had remembered it right!

Visible and invisible Luna travelled together into an empty elevator, that led them to the Department of Magical Travel.

During the wait, older Luna turned visible, subjecting herself to the scrutiny of her younger self, who handed over a pepper up potion with a serene smile.

They kelt a companionable silence until they reached the DMT, and younger Luna turned herself invisible, before pressing the Atrium button.

Older Luna skipped her way to her destination humming a happy tune, the pepper up had really been a marvellous idea!

"Good afternoon!" she said once she had reached the desk for intercontinental portkeys. "I am Luna Lovegood and I have a reserved portkey to the Philippines!" she exclaimed with a smile.

The wizard that sat behind the desk sent her an unimpressed look, before answering: "Room 5, your portkey will live in five minutes. Have a safe trip.".


	2. Stranger in a known land

**A possible continuation of the Bigger Picture, after all, which SI would settle for one world when he could sail through the multiverse?**

**David Taylor hops through worlds, this is one. Based on its reception, and on how and if I like it, I may base the next ff on this one.**

**The smartass who mentioned Calcifer among the comments on The Bigger Picture... well spotted, you motherfucker.**

**I own only my OC!**

* * *

Three white horses with riders cantered toward the ambush, their heads held high and proud, their coats rippling in the moonlight like liquid silver.

On the first horse was an elf with pointed ears and elegantly slanted eyebrows.

His build was slim but strong, like a rapier. A powerful bow was slung on his back. A sword pressed against his side opposite a quiver of arrows fletched with swan feathers.

The last rider had the same fair face and angled features as the other. He carried a long spear in his right hand and a white dagger at his belt. A helm of extraordinary craftsmanship, wrought with amber and gold, rested on his head.

Between these two rode a raven-haired elven lady, who surveyed her surroundings with poise. Framed by long black locks, her deep eyes shone with a driving force. Her clothes were unadorned, yet her beauty was undiminished. At her side was a sword, and on her back a longbow with a quiver. She carried in her lap a pouch that she frequently looked at as if to reassure herself that it was still there.

Suddenly, the first elf raised an open hand, causing the other two to leave the trail and direct the horses in two wide arches around it. They proceeded pulling lightly on the bridles, guiding their horses more with their knees than with their arms, after few hundreds of meters, the two male elves switched places, leaving the one armed with a spear to lead the vanguard on the trail, and making it possible for the second to embrace his powerful bow, his eyes scanning the undergrowth, almost completely ignoring the darkness.

Having at least two members of the party constantly off the trail, forced the group to slow down significantly, the dull sounds caused by the steps of the horses against the dirt almost completely drowning in the inky blackness that made hairs stand up un warning on each of the three elves' arms.

Half an hour later, the song of a nightingale caused the two male elves to stop their horses, their eyes leaving the undergrowth to look toward the direction their third companion had sung from.

In the nightly silence, the two directed their horses toward the she-elf, raised eyebrows on both of their faces a clear picture of surprise and curiosity.

Before they could utter questions, their eyes quickly found the reason of her call. Almost a three hundred of meters off one of the less known trails of one of the thickest forests outside of their home country, there was an oval-shaped clearing, barely large enough to allow the canopy to form a hole through which they could spy the sky. The real object of their curiosity, however, was undoubtedly the two stories tall house made of stone with slate tiles covering its roof, tall windows from which escaped a warm, reassuring light, and puffy clouds of smoke running out from a chimney. The door was made of simple wood, painted of burnt orange but without ornaments, even if the door's brass handle looked like a grinning fox.

"_Is it prudent_?" whispered one of the elves. And when his word left his lips, they resounded with a sharpness that transcended mere sound, they travelled with the certainty of the mountains and the thrill of the first leaves sprouting after the winter.

"_We passed here less than three years ago, I hardly think others use the hidden trail, but who would set up such a building here?"_ The other male answered in the same musical, heavenly tongue.

"_We are tired and have been travelling for days, even if the house is filled to the brim with Urugali, which I doubt, since their smell and tracks are completely missing, we could easily overcome such a small number, especially in the closed spaces where they lack mobility_." the raven-haired she-elf answered, gracefully descending from her mount, her green eyes taking in the curious sign that apparently wasn't there just a moment before.

"_And if they're Imperial soldiers we'll have an easy time removing their outpost_." concluded the first elf, finding wisdom in their superior's choice.

"_I'll scout the area..."_ started the first, when a light rasping made him turn on his saddle, an arrow ready to leave his bow, only to raise an eyebrow when he noticed his target strolling almost _smugly_ into the clearing. Said target was a fox, albeit a big one, with the colours of the autumn and a silvery patch over one eye.

The animal paused briefly once it came near the burnt orange door to give the three intruders a once over, before yipping to the house. Without a sound, the brass handle glowed briefly, before turning and allowing to the animal access to the unusual house.

The three elves exchanged glances that went from amused by the jumpy reaction of their companion, to fascinated by the turn if the events, to enthralled by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

The elf with the spear dismounted silently and walked forward, his eyes scanning the room he could glimpse from the outside. The flickering light gave away the lit fireplace, matching the active chimney, while the tile floor was clearly a mosaic. And when even his eyes could not see further without entering, the shadows inside reluctant to give away their secrets, he walked in, his eyes taking in the room.

The room was twelve meters wide and roughly ten long, with a ceiling that sat comfortably at three meters of height. The single armchair in front of the fireplace clearly spoke of human presence: it was made of simple wood and wicker, with cushions randomly covering it. There was a table in a sturdy looking, light brown wood that ran almost all the way from a wall to the next, bottles hung from the ceiling, each holding inside a liquid that shone of warm, golden light, showing clearly the orderly stacked papers and inkpots over what was clearly a research desk.

On the other side of the room, next to another door that the elf assumed led to the next floor, there was a metallic looking tube from which water fell quietly into a wooden bucket encased in a marble-like shelf. There was another contraption right next to it: a strange grate made in a black like metal was hovering a centimeter from several fungi's heads-like pots. From one of those, a controlled flame was warming up a big kettle.

The elf shook his head lightly, his discipline was the only thing that allowed him to replicate the chirping song of a nightingale before his eyes returned to what was clearly the most important thing in the room.

In the firepit, a flame was burning white over an orderly stacked pyramid of wood, but it was... outside of his reasonably vast experience with human-made fires.

When the other two elves joined him, he could tell that their eyes too were naturally drawn to the uncommon fire, which shivered and danced without a care for the gusts of air, often ignoring to bow to the currents choosing instead to shine more brightly, as in defiance.

* * *

**David Taylor**

* * *

Admittedly, when I tried my dimensional jump, I couldn't exactly aim where I was going to land. Defining several properties of the world I intended to land myself into was a fulcrum for that particularly complex magic, and using [Dragon] [Magic Tongue] [Human] [Mer] should have landed me into the Elder Scrolls-verse. Sadly, Alt-mer were really identical to Agalesia's Elves, in the same way Orsi-mer translated into Urugali and Dwe-mer into Dwarves. _I messed up. _I chided myself. And my punishment was more than fitting: landing in Eragon's world instead of the Elder Scrolls' one was like drinking sparkling water instead of a fine, rich red wine. The complexity behind the two held such difference. _Sure, now that I really think about it, I could have landed in LOTR. _

I shivered at the thought, I had no intentions of visiting there until I became a functional god of some sort. Even if the Ring could help with Fleur... _Nah, wasn't there a ring of fire among the Three given to the elves? _I noted to myself to research it further.

I moved around in my library, placing on a shelf the last book with my observations upon Agalesia's world, before going back upstairs, where three elves were eyeing Fleur curiously.

Raven left her hidden perch and flew to me, landing on my shoulder with a grace that betrayed an unholy amount of years of practice: "I move all the time,

I'm worth more than a dime,

I have both face and hands,

and I move before your eyes.

Yet when I go, my body stands,

and if I stand still, I lie."

I frowned, it was a bitchy one, I could tell from the way she had ruffled her breast feathers and the extremely annoying glint in her normal eye.

The sharp intake of breath of one of the elves, along with the sudden clenching of hands around their weapons of choice grabbed my attention. "Attacking me inside our... home," I spoke, calling 'home' the shard of my first world that I had managed to embed into Agalesia, "would be unwise."

My tone was even, but the suddenly blazing fire forced them to quickly assess the danger level of the situation, not that they could. As elves in Agalesia, the only threat to their lives was Galbatorix, a Shade, and maybe Ra'Zac.

"We didn't mean to intrude." started the first elf, his eyes never leaving my form, even if his tone could resemble something apologetic. At least if I squinted holding my head sideways.

"No, I invited you, otherwise you couldn't have crossed the threshold." I rolled my eyes while walking towards Fleur, reaching out with my will and sharing a sense of calm and quiet along with it. The fire stopped being a raging column of scalding danger and went back into being a calm bonfire. Albeit one whose flames churned on themselves, as offended. "My dear, they're here because I willed it so, destroying them would serve no purpose and wouldn't help us."

I looked back to the elven trio, noticing that they weren't really reassured by casual dismissal of whatever effort they could muster against me if I were to chose to destroy them.

The melodious voice of the first elf started saying something, and while I could discern that no magic was being woven through his speech, I couldn't understand what he was saying.

"Oh, no I can't speak your magic tongue yet. I have no problem with Dwarfish, or Urgali-ish, or human-ish, but that is because of my Allspeak." I shook my head while conjuring seats around the fireplace and pouring several cups of tea with a gesture of my hand, grinning because of the joke the elves weren't privy to.

Half an hour later, we made our introductions and Arya, who clearly was in charge,

"Why is that a mage as clearly accomplished as you does not know the Ancient Tongue?" Arya asked.

"Because periods that convey an intent have reflections in the micro alterations of someone's face, words of power, instead... they convey _change._" I shook my head: "Otherwise I would be able to learn the Thu'um from here."

It was clear to the three elves, that the more they conversed with the admittedly bizarre man that I was, the more questions they would have.

"It's a clock!" I answered Raven's riddle suddenly. It had been a difficult one.


	3. Gamer-One Piece

The squawking of seagulls was the thing that brought me back from the land of uncousciousness. Beyond my closed eyelids, I felt the unforgiving light of an uncaring sun. I kept my eyes scrunched close, trying to postpone the inevitable

Sleeping was sooo nice. I had been dreaming about... _about?_

I frowned a little, my eyes still closed. I didn't remember my dream. But it had been comfortable, that was for sure. I was comfortable, and the seagulls had taken me away from my dream.

Beyond my closed eyelids, I felt the unforgiving light of an uncaring sun. I kept my eyes scrunched close, trying to postpone the inevitable. With a tired sigh, I dragged my hand...

_Sand? Why there's sand under my fingers?_ I frowned.

_..._I dragged my hand over my chest, until I found my own face, my fingers shielding me from the unmistakable presence of the sun over me. I groaned tiredly when the sun's heat made me uncomfortable and slowly forced my torso to stand straight instead of sprawled on the sand. _Even if it was comfortable._

In the meantime, under the irregular squawks of the hated birds, I recognized the regular crashing of the waves. _Sea?_

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes by a fraction, gritting my teeth when the sunlight proved itself far too harsh.

When my eyes adapted, I was met with the sight of an almost cloudless sky, a single, grey nimbus sitting still over me. Even if unfortunately, it wasn't shielding me from the sun, which was cheerfully slamming on my fucking face.

I looked confused at my own feet. I had only a single straw sandal left, my other barefoot was just out of reach from the calm waves.

I moved my head, taking in my surroundings: I was sprawled on a beach made of white sand, there was no land I could see anywhere, only broken pieces of a ship that likely got destroyed by a storm while out at sea.

Focusing on understanding what I was seeing, I realized that the random pieces of wood around keeping me company on the beach were likely pieces of a boat. Then I frowned. _I already thought about it._

_Or at least pieces of something._ I corrected myself. It was clear that they had been broken away from a bigger thing, and that I was confused.

_Fucking hell, my head_. I winced when the pounding headache made itself known one again. I tried to understand what exactly was happening through the curtain of pain, but without making heads or tails of my situation. _Why am I here?_

I cleared my throat a little, feeling it raw when I tried to talk. I tried to gulp down a bit of my own saliva with little success. And then I tried to talk again: "W-w.." I coughed a bit more. "What happened to me?"

Sure, my mind had already asked that question, but it failed to summon any form of memory from the depth of my subconscious.

_Why do I know what a subconscious is? _I wondered.

"Oh, fantastic. I have amnesia." I grumbled. I walked through what was left of the ship that probably broke down with me on it, salvaging what I could, before giving my back on the ocean and taking a good look to the place I stranded on.

A week later, I had built something that resembled a hut with palm leaves and planks of wood I had managed to salvage. Luckily enough, in the middle of what I understood was an uninhabited island I had found a source of spring water, which was keeping me alive, along with some sort of canned fish I found in a crate on the beach. However, I had run out of it on the third day. There was still a single box of wood, but it was different from the ones I had opened up until now.

I grabbed the trusty rock I had been using to break oper things, carve wood, and even to have someone to talk to. A whole week with only the sound of the waves as the company had started to erode my patience.

With a single blow, the rusted iron latch broke, allowing me to open the box. Inside, a strawberry-like fruit gleamed with a metallic sheen, on its surface, swirly curves bled one into another, dazzling me when I tried to follow them with my eyes. The fruit barely filled my palm, and I noticed its edges were strangely squared, but when I tried to swish it, it offered the same resistance a peach would have.

When the hunger came, without really thinking about it, I gulped it down without really thinking about it.

At the moment I felt it cross my lips, I felt the taste of regret, rust, guilt and pain. I turned on the ground, dry heaving and trying to spit it out. I tried to gulp down some water from a nearby canteen but it went down the wrong pipe.

"Cough!" I started wheezing, and when through blurred eyes I saw again my trusty rock, in my desperation, I turned to her: "Help!"

**HELP SYSTEM**

**GAMER, STATE YOUR QUERY**

At that point, I was so far gone that my breath stopped. Incidentally stopping my frantic coughing. I was hallucinating, otherwise, how could I explain the words floating in front of me."What the fuck is this?" I muttered.

**GAMER ATE THE GAME NO MI,**

**BEC****OMING A GAMER MAN**

_There is something wrong in my head. _I thought bitterly_. _Not only because seeing words appearing out of nowhere was a clear problem, but the words didn't even make sense. _What the fuck is a 'Status'?_

In the instant I thought the words, other words unfurled in front of my eyes.

**STATUS GAMER**

**NAME: ? ? ?**

**Race: Human**

**Level: 0 (exp 0/500)**

**Hp:** **30/30**

**Sp: 20/20**

**Strength: 2**

**Vitality: 5**

**Dexterity: 1**

**Intelligence: 4**

**Wisdom: 2**

**Luck:** **50**

**History: ? ? ? ate the Game no Mi while stranded on a desert island, becoming a Gamer-Woman. She likes ? ? ?, dislikes ? ? ? His dream is ? ? ?, her past is shrouded in Her, and her only companion is her pet rock. **

**Skills: ****Gamer**

I crashed the palms of my hands into my eye sockets, trying to find some kind of sense in what I saw: "The hell is a devil fruit?" And even with my hands keeping my eyes shut, the words were there, like blazing in front of my mind.

**Devil Fruit: A strange fruit clearly different from your ordinary peach. ****They** **come from ?** **And grant the eater the ability of ? at the price of ?**

I screamed. I was beyond words, what the hell was this magical mumbo jumbo?

I took a deep breath, eyeing with distaste the floating words: "Ok, let's try again: 'Status'?" And once more, words and numbers flashed over my eyes, and I could see them even with my eyelids down. "Soo... I ate a strange fruit. Okay. What can I do?"


	4. The King against the Dragon

It was just after midnight, and I was crossing the line between one of the nicest parts of town and the part of town where the crack whores and gangsters lived. The distance between the two was thinner than one might think.

The Boardwalk was where the tourists came. Running north-to-south along the beach, there were shops that sold dresses for over a thousand dollars, cafes with ludicrously expensive coffees and stretches of wooden walkways and beaches where tourists could get a great view of the ocean. From pretty much any point on the Docks, you could see one of Brockton Bay's landmarks, the Protectorate Headquarters. Besides being a marvel of architectural design with its arches and towers, the PHQ was a floating base of operations that a squadron of local superheroes called home, outfitted with a forcefield bubble and a missile defence system. There had never been an occasion for either to be used, but I had to admit, it made you feel safer.

If you headed west from the Boardwalk, away from the water, you found yourself in the area the locals just called the 'Docks'. When the import/export business in Brockton Bay had dried up, there had been a whole lot of people who were suddenly out of work. The richest and most resourceful people in town had managed to make more money, turning the city's resources towards tech and banking, but all of the people who had been employed on the ships and in the warehouses had few options left to them. They faced leaving Brockton Bay, sticking around while scraping up what little work they could or turning to more illicit activity.

This all contributed to the boom in the local supervillain population. The potential for big money coupled with the number of eager-to-please mooks and henchmen made it the city to be for the villains in the late 90s. It took a few years for the hero presence to establish and organize themselves, but they did, and there was something of equilibrium now. As far as the cape population went, Brockton Bay wasn't in the top 5 cities in the U.S., but it was probably in the top ten.

Just moving from one block to the next, you could see the change in the area. As I made my way into the Docks, I could see the quality of my surroundings decline steeply. There were enough warehouses and apartments in the area for even the most destitute to find shelter, so the only people on the streets were unconscious drunks, whores and gang members. It was there that I... 'stumbled' over the funds to purchase the components of my costume.

Testing my power hadn't been easy, nor effective. The best I could describe it as was instinct: in particular, during the last months of bullying, I was more or less aware of what was going to hit me. Paper balls thrown at the back of my head were clear images in my head even if there was no way for me to actually see them when I was pushed I instinctively knew how to move my body in order to counter the offence.

Truly, in the last months, the school had been stressful because I had to force myself to remain passive and not react. Sometimes, I found myself reeling back from the insight I had over some people that captured my attention. It wasn't like I had any kind of control over who gained the attention of my powers, but I could control them reasonably easy.

As I moved just over the nearby rooftops and through the interior of buildings I could have caught someone's attention, but I doubted most of the buildings here even had power, and it wasn't like I was strictly reliant on my eyes to go around anymore.

At least, after a week spent in the psycho-ward of the hospital, during which I had learned how to cut myself off from the _E__verything. _

Seven days. 168 hours. 10080 minutes. 604800 seconds, each lasting an eternity. Despair. Rage. Fear. All the emotions that caused harsh reactions in people all around me screamed in my head.

Old black woman, despair: cancer, few months left.

Teen white kid, rage against the injustice: gunshots crippled him without hope to repair.

Man in his forties, medic, great career, despair: wife had a lover, he just found out that his son wasn't biologically his.

Scraping of pens, clicking of vials, skittering of insects, obsessive beeping of too many displays. _Too much too much too much._

I shivered lightly, repressing the memory and focusing on climbing the fire escape ladder on the side of a building, my softened boots almost quiet in the night. In the end, my costume had been dictated by necessity more than by opportunity or functionality: black cargo pants made of a sturdy material designated for firefighters, shirt and hoodie under a kevlar jacket I scavenged from a thug I had ambushed on the streets, weeks before. I had to make do with leather gloves to keep my fingerprints off the scenes and linen bandages to keep my face hidden. Sure, the yellow swimming goggles I had forcibly adapted to work with my glasses weren't the most inconspicuous thing, and sure as hell the coloured lenses didn't help me see in the dark, but I had found that my power was strangely accomodating when I was moving in places where I could scarcely see. I just _knew_ my surroundings, like I had a 3-D interactive model of them in my head at all times.

I ran lightly over the roofs, my legs instinctively leaping over the bare minimum distance to carry me over to the next building. It was freeing in a way I couldn't describe, tonight, I was going to learn more about my powers that I had in the last six months. I was certain of only one thing: my power manifested itself only during fight or flight situations.

Walking in the alleys, be it during the day or night, wasn't safe. But I _felt _like it was the right thing to do. The thugs that triad to assault me had been _easy_ to overcome. Mooks. I had known where they were, how to move to avoid them. Dodging bullets was still out of my curriculum, but I had the idea that knowing the position of the barrels, I could easily predict and avoid the trajectory of the deadly weapons.

The lack of lights in the area was what made me stop and draw myself against the side of a building when I saw a spot of orange in the dark street ahead. The orange was the flame of a lighter, and I was able to make out several faces around it. They were Asian, some wearing hoodies, others wearing headbands or long-sleeved shirts, but all wore the same colours. Red and green.

I knew who these guys were. They were members from the local gang that left the tags 'Azn Bad Boys', ABB for short, all over the East end of the city. More than a few went to my school. As far as the criminal element in Brockton Bay went, they weren't small potatoes. While the typical gang members were just Koreans, Japanese, Vietnamese and Chinese forcibly recruited from Brockton Bay's high schools and lower-class neighbourhoods, the gang was led by a couple of people with powers. Gangs didn't tend to be that racially inclusive as far as who joined, so it said something that their leader had the ability to draw in members from so many different nationalities and keep them in line.

The street was unlit, so my ability to see was dependent on the moon and the few indoor lights that were still on and shining out onto the sidewalks. I started actively looking for their boss. There were more gang members coming out of a two-story building, and they were gathering in the street. They didn't have the atmosphere of people who were just hanging out, either. They were expressionless or scowling, and they weren't talking.

I spotted their boss as the gang pulled away from the door of the building to give him room. I only knew about this guy from what I had heard on the news and read online, but I recognized him immediately. He was a big guy, but not so big that he would send people running when he walked down the street, like some people with powers were. He was a little over six feet, though, which put him head and shoulders above most of the gang members. He had an ornate metal mask over his face, and wasn't wearing a shirt, despite the chill. Sprawling tattoos covered his body from the neck down, all depicting dragons from Eastern mythology.

_Strong_

I ignored the obvious pang of interest that my power summoned from withing me: he went by 'Lung', had successfully gone toe to toe with whole teams of heroes and had managed to keep himself out of jail, as evidenced by his presence here. As for his powers, I only knew what I could scrounge up online, and there were no guarantees there. I mean, for all I knew, he could have misled people about what his powers did, he could have a power he was keeping up his sleeve for an emergency, or he could even have a very subtle power that people couldn't see at work.

The information online and in the papers had told me this: Lung could gradually transform. Maybe it was based on adrenaline, his emotional state, or something, but whatever it was, it made his powers more potent the longer he was in a fight. He healed at a superhuman rate, got stronger, got tougher, got bigger, and he grew armor plating complete with blades at each fingertip. Rumour had it that he even grew wings if he fought long enough. If that wasn't enough, he was a pyrokinetic, which meant he could create flame out of thin air, shape it, intensify it, and so on. That power apparently got stronger as he transformed, too. As far as I knew, there wasn't an upper limit to how strong he could get. He only started returning to normal when there was nobody left to fight.

Lung wasn't the only one with powers in the ABB. He had a flunky, a scary sociopath called Oni Lee, who could teleport or create doubles of himself – I wasn't a hundred per cent sure on the details – but Oni Lee had a distinctive look, and I didn't see him in the crowd. If there was anyone else with powers that I needed to watch out for, I hadn't seen or heard anything about them in my research.

Lung began talking in a deep, commanding voice. I couldn't make out the words, but it sounded like he was giving instructions. As I watched, one of the gang members drew a butterfly knife from his pocket, and another of them put his hand on his waistband. Between the gloom and the fact that I was standing half a block away, I couldn't see well, but a dark shape stood out against his green t-shirt. Chances were it was a gun handle. My pulse sped up a bit as I saw the gun, which was silly. Lung was more dangerous than fifty people with guns.

I decided to move away from where I was and find a better vantage point to monitor their conversation, which seemed like a good compromise between my curiosity and my self-preservation. I slowly backed away from where I was, glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, and then circled around the rear of the building I was lurking beside. I didn't want to fight Lung of all people on my first night out.

_Well, on my first 'proper' night out. _I corrected myself. It had took me a few weeks of unrest to know what I wanted to do, and once I did, there was no turning back. Fighting other capes.

I wanted to be a hero, I knew I had the potential to be one, but the police was around to face normal humans, heroes were needed to face villains, my nights out to pray on your common mooks weren't enough. _But Lung?_ _No dice._

My investigation paid off. Halfway down the alley, I saw a fire escape that was leading up the back of the building that Lung and his gang were standing in front of. The roof was covered in gravel and cigarette butts, which made me think I wouldn't be nearly so quiet walking over it, careful or not. Instead, I walked on the raised outside lip of the roof. As I neared the part of the roof directly above Lung and his gang of 'Azn Bad Boys', I crouched and crawled forward on my stomach. It was dark enough that I doubted they would see me if I jumped up and down and waved my arms, but there was no reason to be stupid.

Being at the top of a two-story building when they were on the ground floor made it hard to hear them. Lung had a strong accent, as well, which meant I had to wait until he had spoken a few sentences before I could figure out what he was saying. It helped that his mooks were utterly, respectfully silent as he spoke.

Lung was snarling, "…the children, just shoot. Doesn't matter your aim, just shoot. You see one lying on the ground? Shoot the little bitch twice more to be sure. We give them no chances to be clever or lucky, understand?"

There was a murmur of assent.

Someone else lit up a cigarette and then leaned over to light a cigarette for the guy next to him. In those moments that his hand wasn't cupped around the flame, I could see the gathered faces of just a dozen or so of the gangsters gathered around Lung. In hands, waistbands and holsters, I could see the dark metal of guns reflecting the orange flame. If I had to hazard a guess, all of them had weapons.

They were going to kill kids? _Just my luck_.

My eyes landed on Lung instinctively, considering my options. I bit my lip under the wraps of my mask.

_Power is inert_ _without __action and choice._

I had to forcibly stop myself from jumping in fright. The impressions I got in my head where always... natural, in a way, I recognized them as a part of my awareness. The idea that blossomed in my mind was... deep? intricate? alien? _not-mine_. I waited for a couple of minutes, but whatever caused the concept expressed with words I hadn't chosen didn't act up again. And once more I was left staring at the preparations of the children-killers.

The idea clicked into place. _What is the point of being a hero, if I don't act now?_ The 'Power is inert without action and choice.' didn't come into my mind as words, but it was more like I could tell the blue sky from the yellow stars in Van Gogh's Starry Night. it was the closest way I could describe it.

I fell upon the gang silently, but at the moment my right foot crashed upon the skull of a mook, everyone turned in my direction, Lung already had orange flames swirling around his hands.

I kept moving, my heart thundering in my chest. While the head under my foot was halfway towards the ground, I bent on my right, my telescopic cosh falling like a ton of bricks on the juncture between neck and shoulder of another thug, making him crumble without a sound.

At the same time, my left leg had lashed out, the steely point of my booth crushing the nose of another gang member.

The head of the first man impacted against the ground and I rolled on my right, keeping myself from stopping to evaluate the situation, I rose to my feet a second later, when the mooks started trailing their weapons on me. It was funny to think that less than four seconds before I was safe on the roof of a two-story building.

I tugged at the closest arm, my momentum working together with my surprise to unbalance the gang member and successfully pulling him in the line of fire. My right arm whipped upwards, slamming my baton in the unprotected armpit of my human shield.

While he was crumbling to the ground, my left leg straightened with a snap, my toes pivoting on the asphalt allowing my right leg to move in a high sweep that hit the wrist of a man that was about to shot me just enough to change the trajectory of the bullet.

In the night, the orange light given off by Lung's fire gave the situation an overtone of dreams and acid-trips, so I was able to ignore the anguished scream of the gang member that won the bullet meant for me. I kept moving.

It was almost thoughtless, I moved in a counterclockwise circle, taking down mook after mook. Lung couldn't burn me because I was too close to his own men, so he was out of the fight while I tore through his gang. It was... exhilarating and underwhelming at the same time. The first because I was having fun in organizing my attacks in order to cause a reaction that I could almost always predict and counter with minimal movements, the latter because... there was no way to put it. Too easy? Not challenging enough?

I bent out of melee attacks, using the limbs I could grasp as leverage to turn mooks into meat shields, twisting my wrists in order to use their own weapons against them, I spun, ducked, punched and kicked in moves that were part of dance without rhythm, a flow full of obstacles. While I was moving, I realized that the music of the song I was playing was dictated by the attackers, the crescendo of a cocked back fist here, the taut violing string of a trench knife singing down on me, the light drumming of panic and rage all around me.

Then, maybe too soon, it ended, and something hit me. I felt it coming, but I couldn't move out of the way quickly enough.

_Kamie_

Something I couldn't quite understand happened: when Lung's clawed hand shot towards my throat, I simply _folded_ on my left. I felt my muscles relax, my body thinning, and the blow went wide.

Lung hesitated for a second, looking just as confused as I was, but it gave me time to regain my bearings.

We squared off each other, and I felt my power raising its head from its slumber, like glowing eyes opening in the dark, and a _pressure_ exploding from my gut.

I had to act against Lung because he was going to kill children, but he was Strong, and as such he had gained the interest of my power. I knew each of the scales that were climbing up his arms, each flicker of fire turning silver, the pressure increased.

_Worms do not challenge the King_

Like I was looking from the outside, I saw a black sheen covering my hands, while I saw mooks that managed to keep regain their senses collapse again under the assault if my ambition. I was going to go toe to toe against someone that held back an Endbringer. No, I was going to _crush_ him.

A smile blossomed in my face, and I shot forward, choke slamming my opponent on the ground before waltzing away, avoiding his flames by a wide margin.

I couldn't help but chuckle when I saw Lung rise to his feet none the worse for wear. It was going to be fun.

* * *

**I've read Worm recently, and in a spark of madness, I've considered that the 'Entity' whose shards are the 'passengers' which grant superpowers to humans, has crossed a multitude of Universes, Dimensions and Realities. From my understanding, the passengers interact with humans to 'understand' the reality they are in. ****From the ending of Worm (spoiler here)****.****.****.****.****the more powers are granted, the less human the superpowered individual stays. And it stands to reason that all that made said hero (as a human) is subsumed by the passenger back into the Entity, in order to grant it the possibility to better understand the human's reality. ****Now, in Worm Taylor Herbert gains mastery of insects etc. But what if before Earth Bet's Universe the Entity had crossed an alternate reality of One Piece? One that had been successfully understood? ****With a little stretch of the imagination, it's possible that the Entity understood said reality. **

**In short words, in this plot, Taylor Herbert gains the MC of Unbound ( my One Piece as a passenger. ) She is not overwritten by the character, but stuff bleeds over, techniques, memories, powers...****PS: Passenger=MC taken at the end of my other ff, and no, his characteristics are not indicative of what will or will not happen in the Unbound fic.**


	5. The King is dead, Long live the King

**SETTING THE STAGE**

The plaza was so full that if someone fainted, the crowd would have kept the person standing without even trying. The sun was blazing among a few white clouds, and there was only a light sea breeze to hold back the warmth of the day.

The people, pressed together like they were a single being, stank. There really wasn't a better way to say it, it was hot, and the sweat, along with the secretly spread farts and burps of the civilians, were thick over my head.

I was a child, a ten years old girl, hold on the shoulders of my father, because 'It was the most important event of the last Age, no matter how gruesome'. I could be his princess, but my father had a healthy respect for the dangers of our world, and he intended to make sure I was aware of them as soon as he believed I could do so without fainting.

That wasn't really a grade A parenting, but listening to him, I was a very mature girl. I snorted. I was 28 when everything changed.

I remember that I was walking back towards my reasonably shitty apartment when I blinked, and I then opened my eyes to fuzzy forms I couldn't quite focus on, exactly 0 control of my body, and feelings and sensations that I couldn't really reconcile with my experience.

It hadn't taken more than... a month, maybe two, time was wobbly at the beginning, to realize that I hadn't gone bonkers. Or that I wasn't in control of my situation at all.

I mean, yeah, my body answered my will, even if it was way too small for me to be comfortable in it, and my thoughts were mine. I recalled my life like it had been a dream, confusing faces had their names, concepts and ideas had a clear meaning, my memories didn't contain anything unreal (there had been a totally savage hen party, but it wasn't something impossible), so...

I was reborn, thankfully as a girl, I didn't want to know what kind of psychosis I would have developed if I found myself with a mismatched couple of xx chromosomes. It's redundant to say, that in those first months of mine I had cried a lot. It wasn't something I did willingly, simply, my body's answer to stimuli was beyond my control.

Curiously, I learned to identify people from sounds and smells first, there was baritone-smoke-iron, tenor-lily-cigarette, squeal-flour-sweat, and babbling-shit.

With time, I would come to recognize them as father, medic, friend-of-father, brother. No mother, never mother, there wasn't one, and I wasn't so out of it that I couldn't guess why.

And everyone would think: wow, daughter of a blacksmith, she must be one too, or something equally idiotic like 'her father forged her the best sword ever and she is already good at it'. That wasn't it. My father, well, my new father, was a regular smith: locks, nails, door handles, hinges. No secret superweapon or superskills. My young lungs badly tolerated the smell of the forge, which in any case wasn't an adequate place for a little girl.

Or someone may think: a baby brother! She loved him and took care of him! No. I did not. It took time just to get used to the idea that all I had accomplished in my life was likely gone, and even more time to learn how to roll with the punch that was the 'you're a child unable to control your bowels, enjoy shitting yourself'.

My first years had been difficult, dealing with the crippling awareness that everything I knew was gone, either because I was living a fabrication of my mind that I couldn't escape from, or because everything was _actually _happening. But I endured, and slowly, I decided to do what I could with what I had. That's not to say that I suddenly started living the joy of being a toddler again among strangers, my brother was still a slobbering mess, and my father was _not _my father.

Still, I realized that clearly I was reborn by no fault of his, even if my brown, curly hair matched his, and I was repeatedly told that I inherited my light-blue eyes from the mother who died of childbirth, and so I slowly came to appreciate the effort that the obviously grief-stricken man was putting into raising his children.

I didn't really understand why he left my brother Bill with Sarah, the baker family friend who kept an eye on us while dad was busy. I only knew that while sitting over his shoulders, I had a clear view of the plaza, and that I had a nagging feeling in my mind that made me jumpy.

Then it happened. The crowd went utterly still, and I could feel even my father's breath freeze in his lungs: from our left, a chained man was being escorted by very nervous-looking soldiers to the execution stand on the opposite side of the plaza. He was a 1,85 meters tall, muscular man. The most eye-catching feature was undoubtedly his curved black moustache, and he walked, no, he strode with a countenance that would have put to shame any king. He was being led to his execution, and I couldn't understand why my father wanted me to witness it.

Even as he was being paraded as a defeated prisoner soon to pay his due, I was close enough to see his grin. It was fierce and savage, holding the promise of victory even in his circumstances, and even if he never looked at me while he walked, I knew that his gaze would weight as a mountain. His black curtain of hair hid the sides of his face, but there was no mistaking his straight back and slightly puffed up chest, even forced as he was to take little steps because of the chains he had on his calves, every time his foot landed on the cobbled path felt like he was conquering it, claiming it as his.

He wore a long red captain's coat, and beneath it, a blue shirt and a yellow sash around his waist. He had a white cravat around his neck, dark blue pants, and what appeared to be black sea boots. I remember thinking that it suited him, in the same way that thunder suited lightning or tsunamis suited earthquakes. Even as I thought it, I knew that he would have made wearing prisoner-rags looking like a kingly suit.

Time had been still during his walk through the plaza, and I realized that the sea breeze had died as soon as he had taken his first step in the human-made corridor towards his demise, so the air hat turned so unbearably hot, that I could see it waver. Even the few clouds in the sky stilled themselves, like they too were eager to assist to the events about to unfold.

I looked as he walked the stairs that led him towards the stage were two other soldiers were waiting for him, the chosen weapon for his execution glinting in the overbearing sunlight. I saw him stop briefly to exchange a few words with a soldier that denied him something, but they were too quiet for me to hear. Almost unwillingly, I hunched forward, my body answering to a need I didn't recognize.

He turned and swiftly sat in the middle of the stage, his legs crossing with the undeniable exact grace that I expected of him. He was too far for me to see his eyes, and yet, there was a glint of power behind them that made it look like he was looking straight at me, evaluating, waiting, pondering. There was something beyond the scope of my understanding at work, I could tell.

"Hey! PIRATE KING!" a man amidst the crowd howled, and I wished to hit him for having broken the sacred silence that was holding us by the troath: "What did you do with your great treasure? It's somewhere on the Grand Line, isn't it? You have it, don't you? The greatest treasure in the world?"

The soldier barked something back, but the attention of everyone was back on the King by then, but the man in the crowd couldn't be denied and continued: "Your one special treasure?" he insisted, "ONE PIECE?!"

And then, in a single second, even in those moments charged with tensions and a challenge about to be thrown, I felt myself dying again, the infinite amount of small clues, from the strange technological development to the strange shape of the money, to the language (that I had learned with difficulties) which was a strange cross of rough English and Japanese, it clicked together, and I realized the dramatic reality of my actual circumstances.

The King laughed, and once more everything stilled, a strange sense of gravity pulling everyone towards him, forcing each one of us to heed him: he was sight for the blind, water for the thirsty, and we all _knew, _deep in our bones, that if we didn't hear his next words, we would have just decided to lie down and await death. His laugh had started as a chuckle only to quickly spiral in a veritable maelstrom, anchoring us in the present, keeping us tied under of his revelation, held by his sheer presence: chained, seated cross-legged and waiting to die, he held more power than should be allowed to a mortal: "My treasure?" he repeated.

And his voice was thick with promises and allusions and images beyond what we could understand, it was bait, line and sinker for the young and the old, for civilian and soldier, for sky and sea. The soldier that had tried to quiet the man questioning the King barked something and pointed his weapon towards Him, but his words were drowned out. Not by other sounds, for everything was quiet and waiting for Rogers' words, simply, after hearing the King, the voice of the soldier was akin to an ant trying to cower the wind that announced an incoming hurricane.

"If you want it, I'll let you have it." and everyone felt like a boulder had been trusted upon our shoulders, an indescribable and unbearable pressure weighing us down: "Go look for it." he challenged the world as the soldier lost it and raised his weapon without being ordered to. "I left all of it at that place!" and with those words, he gave us a direction we were unknowingly gasping for, and while our bodies were still sluggish and slow to answer, our minds altìready were soaring forward, through the unknown and the impossible, we didn't know what His treasure could be, but none of us actually cared, after seeing Him, hearing Him, we all wanted to know, we all needed to know, it was planted deep within everyone: the call.

What could a man like the King have found? What could bring him to offer such promise and challenge while he was being executed? As the blades fell, his grin widened beyond what I thought possible, and the pressure of his presence turned in something else, it was something beyond the ability of words to describe, something charged with far too much meaning for it to be tamed by definition, titanic, gargantuan, vast, unknown, mysterious, powerful, new, unheard of, impossible, joyful, terrible and again another list of words that managed to reflect a single shard of what the King _was. _

_And when he died, the world broke._


End file.
